


The Hands-On Approach

by mattador



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattador/pseuds/mattador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Hughes uses knives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hands-On Approach

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the months before Episode 13 (or concurrent with it), except for the last scene, which is set between Episodes 22 &amp; 23\. Name-dropping of manga and video game characters occurs, but no more. The only original characters mentioned follow the, uh, FMA naming conventions for military associates of Mustang's. Like the series, the tone is meant to go light-dark, light-dark- unfortunately, it's rather more weighted towards dark, the ending especially. Vaguely beta-ed only.

_ **The Hands-On Approach.** _

\----

It was Fuery who first asked Hughes about his knife, one slow summer morning. It was almost too hot to think, and no-one had any paperwork save the Colonel- who was, therefore, off somewhere evading it when Hughes came by to share some secret or another from Investigations. For the next hour, then, he rhapsodized about Elycia, until an emergency conference was formed in the hallway to distract or subdue him- and as Fuery was the most junior officer present, the task fell to him.

He re-entered the room, and weathered five more pictures of Elycia and their accompanying anecdotes before the Lieutenant Colonel had to pause for breath- and then he seized the opening like a drowning man thrown a life preserver, letting the first words he thought of fall out of his mouth.

"You use push-knives, don't you, sir?" he asked, all in a rush.

"Eh?" Hughes said, startled into silence for a moment and looking up from his wallet, where he'd been reaching for another photograph. "Yeah." He produced one from his sleeve with a flourish. "Finest Drachma steel."

_Keep going_, Fuery's mind told him, encouraged by Havoc and Breda's not-so-subtle expressions of relief.

"What for?" he said, his mind on Hawkeye's meticulously-cared for pistols, or the standard single-edged combat knives they were issued. Trying to cover up both his potential rudeness, he added timidly, "I mean, they're not exactly regulation. What made you choose them, sir?"

Hughes looked at him for a moment, frowning sharply, then pushed his glasses up on his nose. When he met Fuery's gaze again, his eyes held nothing but relaxed, immaculate boredom, and he shrugged before answering, "Well, they never run out of ammunition, do they?"

But Fuery had already seen that look- not to mention Havoc and Breda.

\----

It was dark outside, but storming. No lightning, no thunder- fire and gunshots instead, echoing endlessly, flickering off the scorched walls of the shell of a building they were hiding in. A poet might have said it was raining blood, but Second Lieutenant Hughes had only written love poems before. Something about the chaos and slaughter of battle failed to inspire himn with quite the same enthusiasm he found when writing his letters home.

"I love it," said the Major he was shoulder-to-shoulder with, a sharply handsome man with dark hair and eyes that held the reflected light of each explosion just a little too long. "Pure anarchy bringing down this city. There's enough sound shaking the walls to set off nitroglycerin." the Major paused to take a deep breath, shaking excitement, and then yelled at the top of his lungs. "Gran! Send me out there!"

"Go!" the gruff command came a moment later from deeper in the ruin, where there was better cover. "Storch! Hughes! Hornisse! Give him cover fire!"

He steadied himself, mapping out a plan of attack- but then the Major bolted around the corner and jumped out the broken doorway, grinning rabidly, and swearing under his breath, Hughes followed him at a crouching run.

The Ishbalans were in the open, in the midst of a break across the street, and Hughes' eyes flashed to the corner. They'd have cover fire of their own- the gun kicked in his hands as he shot, once twice threetimes, hearing the whine of answering fire over his head as he holed their man at least once. Then the Major, whatever his name was, was right in their midst, wrapping his hands around a red-eyed kid's throat. Hughes had a moment to wonder stupidly if he'd misread the man's insignia, if he was an unarmed specialist rather than a State Alchemist, before the Major let go and kept running, sprinting right through the rest of the formation and diving for cover.

The world lit up.

\----

They were at the Squadron Summer Carnival when Havoc found him, winning plush animals for Elycia at the ring-toss. Three throws brought the Lieutenant Colonel three prizes, and Havoc found himself conscripted into carring a massive stuffed dog, bright blue with floppy ears, and a tie-dyed koi fish beanbag.

"Do they stuff these things with ball bearings? Why do you have to be such a good throw?" he complained, half-heartedly, laying down the set-up for his next question. "Why not a good shot like Hawkeye? Over at the water-gun booth they're giving away lollipops."

Hughes raised an eyebrow and looked back at him, a pink-and-green teddy bear the size of a Saint Bernard under one arm. "I wasn't always in Investigations, Lieutenant," he said mildly. "I'm not a bad shot. But the sound of gunshots gives away your position, you know." He paused, almost tripped over a small child, and watched Hawkeye walk by with a double handful of tremendous lollipops, Fuery and Breda trailing behind her and looking glum with more of the same.

"Besides," he told Havoc, his voice perfectly serious. "I can't stand the smell of gun oil."

\----

The street smelled of blood, but only faintly- the overwhelming scent was that of Major Kimbry's unstable nitrates. There had been more of it than blood in the dead, by the time he was finished with them. Hughes- First Lieutenant Hughes, since Hornisse had been used by Kimbry to set off an Ishbalan munitions caravan- wore noseplugs, like the rest of the unit. Lieutenant Colonel Marcoh had made them, after finding out that half the soldiers who had seen the munitions caravan go sicked up at the smell their own guns made after firing. They had seen what gunpowder could do, other than make neat little holes in people.

Hughes was waiting for his transfer. Briefly, he'd considered focusing on his marksmanship and becoming a sniper, glasses or no, but he wanted more distance from that. He wanted to be further from the smell. He was better at cleaning up messes than making them- as a Cadet, he'd always been the one to plan the pranks Roy and Knox and Martins carried out. He'd spent the last two months in correspondence, taking the tests and certifications he'd need to switch over to Intelligence. He could be good in intel, efficient there- far enough away not to feel it, not to see what happened after Kimbry touched someone. He just needed the space to think.

He closed his eyes and thought about guns. About how many Ishbalans he'd put a bullet through, or about the special arrays Roy had- the one that gave him his name, slightly altered, that could be used to spark all the gunpowder around him, leaving anyone nearby with a gun a ruin- hands blasted to bleeding scraps, eyes scorched blind, deafened but still screaming, if their throat was lucky enough to have survuived. About Basque Grand, the one-man artillery emplacement, conjuring so many guns he could not see where he aimed. About Major Armstrong, who'd beat his opponents bare-knuckled, bellowing damand after demand for their surrender until he was given the order to kill and rained stone spears down on their heads.

About Major Kimbry, who no longer had anybody but conscripts put under his command, and about the officers who gave them all orders. If he stayed on the front, the best that he could do was death.

\----

There was a shooting range in Eastern Headquarters, and Hughes used it during his visits. Not religiously, perhaps, but he would find himself there from time to time, almost by accident, and spend five minutes shooting, and perhaps half an hour practicing his throws. It was not uncommon for him to see Hawkeye there- he suspected she slept there- but it _was_ unusual for her to do more than nod his way and say "Sir," when she saw him.

This time, ten minutes or so after he had begun, he looked back to see her standing a respectful behind him, watching impassively. He finished with his current brace of knives, collected them, and then turned to her. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Each blade struck a vital area, incapacitating or killing the enemy," she said, crisply, with a cadet's precision and blank expression. "But the draw time for the knives presents a crucial delay. For every two knives you throw, you could fire five shots. Your aim with a gun is good enough that you would be more efficient with it. Why choose the knives, sir?"

Hughes frowned, then made a noise of realization. "There's an office betting pool now, eh?"

Her eyes flicked to his, concealing any amusement well. "Yes, sir."

"Why did they send you?"

"They thought I had the best chance of getting a straight answer, and the best chance of telling if you were lying," she said after a moment.

Hughes nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if there's money at stake, I suppose I should be honest." He paused and tapped his chin. "If you really have to know, I'm just to lazy to clean them."

"That's a lie, sir," Hawkeyes informed him. "Your knives are sharp and well-polished."

He made a dismissive flick with his hand. "It's still a good answer. Besides, Lieutenant, Havoc deserves to win- I hear that Roy's stolen another girlfriend from him."

She blinked, and looked vaguely irritated- but more than that, curious. "How did you know that was Havoc's bet, sir?"

\----

The status report on his desk was still half unread. He was in Central, he was safe, away from it all, but the words on the paper...

He laughed weakly. "You can't get shot with bullet points, Maes," he said under his breath, and stalked another circuit around the room, pausing only to look down at the report again and confirm what he saw.

_\- Doctors Rockbell executed for abetting enemies of the State by Flame Alchemist Roy Mustang_

_\- Flame Alchemist being sent back to Central after psychological evaluation for medical leave, indefinite duration_

"Dammit, Roy," he said, under his breath, and felt like a deserter. He had left Roy to face the front lines alone, because he was afraid he would be too bloodied, stained red by death like the Crimson Alchemist. But he'd left Roy to that, to the horrors of baking cities to death, now that Marcoh's Red Stone was in usage. Who had he damned to keep himself pure? Because he was too cowardly to sleep on ground that shook with death, breathe the air in which a thousand alchemical reactions must have left saturated with the ashes of the dead. What good could he do hear that would be more important than keeping his best friend sane and whole?

What could he do that would leave him with his conscience clean?

He screamed, a sudden guttural yell of frustration, picking up the letter opener from his desk and flinging it as hard as he could. It buried itself halway in the wall and hung, quivering, the wavering echo of it as it vibrated like vertigo dancing in his ears.

He stood there a long time and stared at it, trying to map out a plan, to find an angle.   
\----

Edward Elric had arrived back to deliver his reposrt just in time to lose the betting pool- normally, this would just have led to grumbling about Hughes' laziness, but unfortunately, Al, like Hawkeye, was perceptive enough to notice how well cared-for the Lieutenant Colonel's weapons were, including his little-used sidearm.

There was a thunderclap and a small storm of displaced paperwork as he slammed open the door of Hughes' temporary office in Eastern HQ.

"YOU OWE ME MONEY!"

"Easy now," Hughes responded, chuckling either nervously or patronisingly. "You would have lost anyway, Fullmetal. These glasses aren't for my depth perception."

"How did-" Ed cut himself off and fumed in silence for a moment.

"Why don't you want to tell anybody, Lieutenant Colonel?" Al asked, shuffling around nervously in the background and celarly hoping to defuse his brother's temper.

"Well, it can't hurt anything," Hughes said after a moment. Ed looked up, suspicious and intrigued, and Hughes lowered his voice as he continued. "It's just that it's a little embarassing, that's all." The brothers leaned in closer, attention fully captured. 'It's not so much, I know, but..."

"What is it?" Ed demanded.

"Well, with the regulation gunbelt on, and the gun fully loaded....the way it hangs makes my hips look fat."

The outraged yells that followed could be heard clear across the compound.

\----

And then, there was Maria Ross, staring seriously at him outside the Elrics' hospital room, wondering how to best defend them, wanting the opinion of a friend, not the advice of a superior officer, on how she could go on amidst the violence and corruption. "Is there a way away from it that can still help?" she asked.

"You don't want a way away," He answered, slowly, soberly, all the humor bled out of his eyes. "The more distance you get, the more the cost. The further away the deaths and the betrayals get, the easier they rest on you, and the easier it gets to approve of their cost, if it gets the State what it wants."

There was a long silence as she looked at him, and then he continued. "That's why I use knives instead of guns. Guns got too impersonal in Ishbal, too easy to follow orders and just shoot, pull the trigger. I couldn't tell where to draw the line. With a knife you have to get close enough to look the enemy in the whites of their eyes, to know that they're human, and you have to watch them bleed, or even feel them if you stab instead of throw." As he spoke, he watched her- pale face becoming even chalkier, lines of worry drawn tighter and fiercer. "It makes you count the cost," he said. "It makes you remember how horrible death really is."


End file.
